


Signs/Language of Love

by SteeleHoltingOn



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Deaf Clint Barton, F/M, M/M, Post CA:TWS, Post WWII, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-World War II, Sign Language, WWII
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-07 01:43:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4244802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SteeleHoltingOn/pseuds/SteeleHoltingOn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sarah Rogers wasn't supposed to teach her son, Steven, the finger language of the Deaf.  She couldn't have known the profound influence it would have on his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1921

**Author's Note:**

> A/N When I originally posted this story several months ago, it was pointed out that ASL was not taught during the 20’s and 30’s due to an overwhelming emphasis on lip reading skills (oralism). Many teachers who had taught ASL (manual language) were dismissed outright or demoted from their schools, and ASL was marginalized to local or private groups of former teachers who passed the signs from one to another. In this way, ASL stayed alive until it became an accepted method of teaching again in the mid-20th century. 
> 
> I had read that in my research, but had not incorporated that knowledge into the original story. I rewrote the story because this important fact is one of the historical issues surrounding Deaf culture, and it is important not to brush over it, even for a simple fanfic.

As she said goodnight to her son, Sarah Rogers kissed Steven on the forehead.  With solemn blue eyes, he opened and closed his hand in a wave goodbye.  At the tender age of three, he’d learned long ago that crying didn’t make Mama stay.  

She hated it when he cried.  She hated leaving him with a neighbor four times a week, though Mrs. Sullivan was kind and didn’t ask for much money. Sarah had volunteered for the night shift, so at least she could work while Steven slept, even if meant being exhausted while he bounced around their tiny apartment during the day.  It was worth it not to miss his waking hours, and she’d learned to get by on the long nap they took in the afternoons.

With a quiet goodbye to Mrs. Sullivan, Sarah had to do a fast walk to get to the Brooklyn Hospital where her shift started in just a half hour.

She reminded herself to be grateful she’d finished her student nursing before Mr. Rogers had been killed in action, and that the hospital had been kind enough to offer her one of the few graduate nurse positions.  She’d been the top of her class and most respectful to the senior nurses.  The money wasn’t much, but it was enough to get by.  For an Irish widow with a sickly child, she reminded herself to be thankful for her blessings.   

In any case, she didn’t want to be late. Not today.  She had a mission.  

Yesterday, a much older woman had checked in for stomach pains.  As Sarah had settled her into the ward, she'd discovered Mrs. Daughton was deaf. With pen and paper, Mrs. Daughton had asked if there was anyone on staff who signed the finger language.  Sarah shook her head sadly.  

They had a friendly, if painstaking, conversation by writing in a notebook.  Sarah had discovered the lady had been a teacher for deaf children back when finger signs were taught, rather than making the children rely on reading lips. Though the two women could write, Sarah could see Mrs. Daughton’s frustration and wondered how much easier it was to communicate with gestures.

She’d thought about the woman all night, checked on her hourly, and wondered.  Steven was deaf in one ear. Sarah had figured out that he was trying to read her lips when he would stare hard at her mouth as she talked.  Between that and what hearing he had, they got by.  He’d been slow to talk and still had the odd pronunciation here and there. When she'd found out about his hearing, she’d done her research. All the educators and doctors insisted that Steven would be fine reading lips, that it was the right way to have him grow up in a normal world.  

But the last bout of pneumonia had terrified Sarah.  He’d been so choked up with phlegm that his ears and lungs had filled. Her darling boy had been so sick, he couldn’t hear her. He was so tired, he couldn’t keep his eyes open long enough to figure out what she was saying.  He’d been too exhausted to do anything but reach for her.  

Seeing Mrs. Daughton make finger motions got Sarah thinking, and with a tiny kernel of hope blooming, she considered the possibilities.  This morning, she’d taken Steven to the library and had checked out an old book of American Sign Language.  She’d painstakingly copied all the letters and drew pictures of the hands on the back of an old flyer while Steven sat in the chair next to her and sorted through all the picture books she’d piled in front of him.

Tonight, Sarah timed her visit to Mrs. Daughton so that she could take her short break at the same time.  The woman smiled, for Sarah had been patient with her in ways some of the other nurses hadn’t.  Sarah sat down, balancing her sheet of paper on her lap, and held up her hands.  She carefully formed the letters one by one.  //Hi, my name is Mrs. Rogers.  Can you help me talk to my son?//

Mrs. Daughton’s eyes widened. She smiled, making a sign in front of her, and then spelled out the letters “Y,” “E,”and “S.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:
> 
> Here is where the idea came from of signing being handed down from one person to another: outside classrooms, from vocational teachers and the community itself.  
> http://vq.vassar.edu/issues/2003/02/features/american-sign-language.html  
> http://www-tc.pbs.org/weta/throughdeafeyes/about/transcript.pdf  
> http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0814798918
> 
> Regarding nursing in the 1920’s:  
> In the 1920’s, most student nurses worked 12-24 hour shifts at the hospital for a stipend, food, and housing--pretty much as cheap labor for whatever nursing and/or cleaning was needed in the hospital. As hospitals moved away from 24-hour shifts, nurses were often required to work up to 6 days a week. Due to this grueling schedule, when they graduated, only a few nurses stayed in the hospital setting as staff nurses. The majority of the rest went into private duty nursing where the money and hours were better. There are many, many articles on this subject. I look liberties here with Sarah’s employment because I haven’t been able to verify what kind of hours the staff nurses had, though I can speculate from what I’ve read that she made $20-25 a week. A quarter of that went to rent.


	2. 1931

Bucky sat in Mrs. Rogers’ kitchen across from Steve.  His friend had been out of school for a whole week with bronchitis.  His homework had piled up, and Bucky’d promised to help him get caught up.

They’d been best friends for a year now, and he’d needed to do some fast-talking to convince Steve to swap chores and jobs today. Usually on Saturdays, the pair did their morning chores early enough to get to the shoe shine spot they’d claimed before the lunch crowd came out. They would stay until the crowds dried up, and then go home and count their haul.

Bucky’s chores were all indoors--taking out the trash and scrubbing part of the family laundry. Well, not really. But he’d gotten up extra early to sweep the stoop real good and wash it down.

So Steve’d walked to the Barnes’ house to do Bucky’s chores, then come home and done all his regular chores.

In return, Bucky’d done a double shift at the shoe shine spot. Along about mid-afternoon, the rain had come in and business dried up, as it always did at those times.  

Now that he was at Steve’s house, Bucky took his pocketful of change and counted it out between them, halving the dimes, nickels, and pennies.  There was one quarter, and Steve made Bucky keep that.

Steve pushed his share towards his Ma.  She picked out the nickels and dimes, but insisted Steve keep the pennies.  “You boys can go see a picture when your homework is done.”

There were fifteen pennies, more than enough for a picture and popcorn, too. Bucky carefully pocketed fifteen cents and put the rest of his share aside for his Ma. Well, mostly for his Ma.  Bucky always kept back a dime or two for emergencies, like his Da had taught.  He had a sock getting full of them now, and he sure liked the weight of it.

Mrs. Rogers set a loaf of fresh soda bread on the table  “Now, Bucky, you did a fine job this day, as did you, Steven. Helpin’ each other is the right thing to do.”  She sliced a thick slab of the loaf for each of them. The bread was good enough it didn’t need even a bit of fat or a pat of butter for flavor.  Not only that, she’d made potato soup and didn’t that bread sop up that soup just fine?    

“Thank you, Mrs. Rogers.”  He’d already washed his hands, and he was proud of himself for remembering to use his napkin and his best manners.  When Mrs. Rogers offered seconds, he refused like his Da insisted, though Mrs. Rogers spooned up a second helping of the soup anyway.  He ate it because it would be rude otherwise, and Steve just smirked at him. Bucky kicked his friend under the table.

Afterward, they settled down to do Steve’s homework.  Bucky was a whole grade higher than Steve, and the math was easy enough.  Half the time, he helped Stevie with his homework anyway, so this wasn’t anything he couldn’t do.

He made sure to sit on the side of Steve’s good ear, but he could tell his friend still wasn’t all the way better by the way he had to focus on Bucky’s lips making words.  

Steve turned red as he tried to work out what Bucky was saying.  Frustrated when he couldn’t, he threw his pencil across the room.  

Mrs. Rogers stopped her darning, picked it up, and handed it back.  “An’ that pencil never did you any harm, a stor.  What is vexing you?”

Instead of answering, Steve lifted his hands to make strange gestures to her.  Mrs. Rogers gave Bucky a quick warning glance to be silent and made some of her own hand motions.  

Bucky bit his lip to stay quiet.  He’d seen how people who talked with their fingers were made fun of and called stupid because they couldn’t talk like everyone else.  But he knew Stevie was smart and great at drawing.   Whatever it was she said, Steve pouted when his ma was done, and he looked away as his eyes got all glossy.  He wiped his nose on his sleeve.  

Bucky tapped Steve on the shoulder and handed him a hanky from his own pocket.  

Steve sniffed and took the cloth.   “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. What was that all about?” He formed his words carefully with his mouth.

With a hard swallow and another swipe at his eyes, Steve told him, “Can’t hear much.  Good ear’s all stopped up.  I’m trying to keep up, Buck, but I can’t always tell what you’re saying.  I’m just stupid, I guess.”  

He punched his friend in the arm. “How are you supposed to learn if you can’t figure out what I’m saying?”  

Steve reddened and put his chin on his knees.

“Teach me,” Bucky insisted.  “No one has to know but you and your Ma. I’ll help you with your lessons.” He elbowed Steve in the knee.  “Just shine my shoes every once in a while.”

Rolling his eyes, Steve shoved at him a little. “Jerk.”

“You know it.”  

With hunched shoulders, Steve sat cross-legged and held a hand up.  “This is ‘a.’”

Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky noticed Mrs. Rogers had to dig for her own handkerchief.  He pretended he didn’t see a thing and held up his fist to copy the letter.

 

 

 

 


	3. 1936

With an aching heart and a throat that hurt from swallowing down tears, Steve climbed the steps to his apartment. Bucky followed close behind. His friend had let Steve get away with taking off after the funeral, knowing it would be hard to ride in a car with the whole Barnes family, but Bucky’d waited on the staircase for Steve to come home.

Bucky asked him all the same questions everyone else did.

And he gave Buck the same answers he’d given everyone that day, while brushing off the sympathy as he dug for his key.

His best friend didn’t buy it.  “Look, we can put the couch pillows on the floor like when we were kids.  It’ll be fun. All you gotta do is shine my shoes and maybe take out the trash.” Bucky plucked up the extra key from under the rock on the stoop and handed it over.  “Come on,” he cajoled.

Steve didn’t laugh at the old joke.  “Thank you, Buck,” he said as sincerely as he could. “But I can get by on my own,” he lied.

“The thing is, you don’t have to.”

The weight of his friend’s hand as it came down on his shoulder was the finest feeling Steve’d had in a week.  

“I’m with you ‘til the end of the line, pal,” Bucky reminded him.

He sighed with relief as some of the jitters settled out.  He got the door unlocked and stalled on the doorstep. He was terrified about going inside, knowing his Ma would never come home again.  It was gonna make all of it real in a way it hadn’t been so far.  

“Come on, punk.” Bucky sort of shoved him inside the apartment.  “You don’t want to be alone right now and you know it.”

No, he didn’t.

Once inside, Steve carefully put away the suit he’d bought and wore for the funeral.  It was good enough for working at the newspaper where he’d been hired as a junior illustrator straight out of high school.  The money wasn’t nearly as good as what his Ma had brought in as a nurse, and dreams of art school were postponed for a good while.

He reminded himself to be grateful that the hospital had covered Ma’s bills, though he had no idea what he would do the next time he got sick. She’d always been able to bring medicine home from work.  Still, he needed to count his blessings. His parents were together now, he had Bucky, and he had work--which was more than a lot of people could say.  He might have to stand in line for the soup kitchen now and again, but he’d be grateful for that too.  

He was buttoning his pants when Bucky barged into the bedroom to dig through the wardrobe.  “I'm sure I left some duds here.”  

Steve leaned in beside him to flip through the hooks.  “Here you go.” When he held out the clothing, he couldn’t miss the way Bucky’s eyes skimmed over his bare chest. It wasn’t a look of disgust or concern.  No, Steve’d seen this particular look on his friend’s face too many times--usually when Buck had his eye on a dame, but more and more often it had come his way.

Maybe it was the wrong time, maybe Steve wasn’t thinkin’ straight with his Ma fresh in her grave, maybe he was scared of bein’ alone.  Maybe he was tired of not thinkin’ about his friend in that way.  

When Steve returned the look with open admiration, there wasn’t anything calculating in the way Bucky’s eyes widened.  Instead, that charming smile split his face and those ice blue eyes lit up with interest.

Steven wasn’t any more immune to it than the dames Buck flirted with.  Steve’s palms got sweaty, his heart pounded, and he flushed until he was hot as fire.  He licked his lips--maybe on purpose, maybe on accident.  

Bucky held up his hands, fingers flying through the language he’d learned for Steve.  //You sure about this?//

//Always been sure about you, Buck.//

//Don’t slug me when I kiss you.//

//Do it right then.// Steve set down the handful of clothes and put his hands on Bucky’s hips.  That earned him Bucky’s cocky grin and a warm mouth that demanded to be explored.  

There wasn’t anything awkward about it.  If anything, it was the last piece in a puzzle they’d been assembling for a while now.  It clicked, and the picture was whole.

Late that night, they lay on Steve’s narrow bed, sweat cooling as they touched foreheads.  With one hand, Bucky signed, //I love you.//

//I love you,// Steve signed back.

 

 

 


	4. 1943/1963

1943

 

Barnes yanked Morita to the ground by his shirt.  “What the hell are you doing?”

“Jones knows the signals,” Morita protested. “You know, the shit they taught us about communicating across a battlefield?”

“Yeah, and they don’t know shit about keepin’ your head down. I got this one, and after, we need to talk.  But no one is wavin’ their goddamned arms like an eagle in broad daylight.”

Barnes rolled up on his elbows, waiting for Rogers to look his way.  When he did, Barnes kept his gestures small, clean, and clear. Rogers gave him a little salute in acknowledgement.

“What the hell was that?” Morita whispered.

“Something that’s going to keep our asses alive a little longer.”

 

*****

 

1963 

 

All of the Howling Commandos had learned simple signs from the Captain and the Sergeant, though both were close-lipped about how and why they knew the language.  For certain, the Commandos all knew that there was a whole lot more to those signs than what the Captain and Sergeant let on.

It wasn’t until a reunion twenty years later that Morita brought it up again.  The Commandos laughed over missed signals and reminisced over the sorties that had depended upon the signs.  Morita snorted.  "Did any of you figure out they were using ASL?"

Gabe jerked a little in surprise.  "Isn't that the way deaf people talk?"  

"Uh huh," Morita agreed.  He reproduced a sign they’d all seen the pair use on occasion.  Back then, the Sergeant had laughed it off and said it was an insult. “Did any of you ever figure out what this means?” he asked, making a trio of gestures that flowed so fast it might have been a single movement.

Dum Dum’s eyebrows lifted.  “Always thought they were callin’ each other names.”  

Morita make the gesture again, slowing down the movement into three distinct signs.

Gabe squinted as he tried to remember.  “I, I think-L, that's easy-what’s the last one?”

“Y. I-L-Y. Means ‘I love you’,” Morita explained.

“'I love you?' Those guys were together?”

Falsworth let out a slow exhale.  “That explains a lot. Especially why Cap didn’t come home after that last mission.”

Dum Dum took a long drink from his pint.  He set it down and studied his glass.  “Ain’t none of you ever gonna say a word to Peggy--or to anyone.  That girl loved the Captain. I know she’s moved on, but ain’t none of us going to tarnish that legacy.”

Morita gave Dum Dum a dirty look. “Wasn’t plannin’ on it, asshole.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N Hand signals in WWII were used for communicating during battle, due to the the tremendous noise of cannons and gunfire. They were not used for stealth. Modern hand signals for stealth teams began to be used in the Vietnam era. 
> 
> So yes, I had a little fun thinking up how the Howling Commandos might function as a strike team and would develop their own set of hand signals. 
> 
> [WWII Battlefield Hand Signals](http://cdn.historynet.com/wp-content/uploads/image/2011/MH/MAY/600x440xHandTool.jpg.pagespeed.ic.-Ei_Ho8rsK.jpg)
> 
> I took liberties here ... the older version of ASL's "I love you" is more physical (both arms crossed in a self-hug) and, quite frankly, more obvious as to the meaning. We'll go with our boys using the modern version of "I love you," though still as three individual signs, rather than the single hybrid sign that is used today.
> 
> Here's a great explanation: [ASL 'I Love You'](http://www.lifeprint.com/asl101/pages-signs/l/love.htm) and the acronym [ILY](http://www.lifeprint.com/asl101/topics/i_love_you.htm)
> 
> Note: edited links and small portion of story after posting.


	5. 2012

The first words Steve saw Clint sign to Natasha were the last ones he’d signed to Bucky.  

He put his fist through a dozen bags that day.  

 

 

 


	6. 2014

Twenty-four hours after Natasha put the file in Steve’s hand, JARVIS found a lead.  A man meeting Bucky’s description had appeared at the Smithsonian.  The next day, the AI found another image off a street cam near Grand Central Station in New York.  

Steve and Sam landed in New York an hour later.  Stark showed Steve to his floor in the Tower, where Sam dropped his duffle in one of the spare rooms. Steve dropped his in another, and the pair of them went right back out the door.

Gambling that if his old friend was looking for pieces of himself, Steve figured Brooklyn would be the place to start. After seventy-odd years, though, there were only a handful of places that still looked wholly familiar to him.  His and Bucky’s old apartment had been condemned in the sixties, and their parents’ places before that.  Their shoeshine spot had a trash can on it in front of a bright green and brown Starbucks.

But the elementary school they had attended was still there, and so was diner across the street where they'd had eaten a hundred times or more.  The name had changed, the decor hadn't, and the place still had kitschy charm even if the wait staff had modern uniforms.  

Steve took one of the outside tables, settling in with his sketchpad and coffee. For two days, he kept that table--tipping well enough that none of the staff minded.  Sam found a place on the third floor of the building across the street where he could serve as a lookout.  

JARVIS sent images now and again, from locations close enough for Steve to stay planted. Twice, he and Sam thought they caught a glimpse of his old friend, but the man disappeared before Steve could be sure.  The sketchpad began to fill up with images of Bucky, and with nothing more to do than to remember, grief struck Steve all over again.  The two years of walls he’d put up to block out the ache in his heart crumbled, as if he hadn’t laid a single brick.  

On the morning of the third day, when he and Sam approached the diner, they found a man standing in front of the window, staring inside as if lost in thought.

In spite of the modern hoodie, ball cap, and backpack, Steve recognized that stance.  Balanced, with the right foot ahead of the other, two fingers hooked around the strap of the pack, one hand jammed in his pants pocket, his head tilted just a fraction to the left.

Physically, it was pure Bucky Barnes.  

Swamped with regret/longing/love/rage, Steve forced all of that back, needing to focus on the deadly assassin who had tried to kill him no more than ten days ago. He stepped to Bucky’s right, catching greyed eyes and a hollow face in the diner window’s reflection. "I could use a bite.  You?"  

Eyes shifted, meeting his. A faint grimace.  Lips parted, then closed again. A single nod.

Sam and Steve led the way, hoping Bucky would follow.  He did.  Steve slid to the inside of the booth, letting Bucky take the outside. The waitress stopped by the table to drop off glasses of water and the menus. With an observant eye born of years of experience, she stepped away, murmuring she’d be back soon enough.

Sam leaned across the table, making sure to keep his hands visible.  “How’s your stomach? Tolerating food okay?”

In a voice husky with disuse, Bucky said, “Some.”  

Steve damned near broke down in tears at the sound.

Sam kicked his ankle, saying to Bucky, “Try a shake. Soup. Applesauce.  Should stay down a little better than a hamburger.”

With a hard swallow, Steve drummed up the friendliest voice he had. “Hey, Buck, they have oatmeal too.”

Bucky’s shoulders hunched as he looked over the choices Steve pointed out on the menu.  “I don’t … I don’t remember.”

“That’s okay.  Let’s start with oatmeal and maybe some chicken noodle soup.”

Bucky fell silent. He ate the oatmeal, inhaled the soup. Tried the crackers and put them down.  Drank a glass of water and stole Steve’s coffee.

The latter forced Steve to look away, to bite his lip against the pure joy singing through his veins.  When he had himself under control again, he looked his old friend over.  Though he knew the serum could compensate for quite a bit, it couldn't hide the signs of deprivation and the lack of sleep.  

All the while, Sam managed light conversation that didn't particularly need a response, telling a silly story about his younger brother and sister and growing up in D.C.

Bucky listened. At the end of the story, he commented, “You had wings.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, I liked ‘em, too.”

To Steve, Bucky said, “I know you. Why were you my mission?”

As neutrally as he could manage, Steve replied, “Because the people who had you were afraid of me.”

That elicited a frown that drew hard lines between Bucky’s eyebrows. “You stopped the mission. You said we were friends.”

Steve fought for his composure again, needing to be steady for Bucky. “‘Til the end of the line, Buck.  I guess we haven’t found that yet.”

Ice blue eyes widened. Bucky glanced down at his hands, one metal, one flesh. When he brought his gaze back to Steve, his eyes were filled with confusion.  “He told me … he told me I would change the world.”

“Yes. And you did.”

“But I know you,” Bucky growled in frustration. “I wouldn’t--I don’t want to hurt you.”

Steve nodded. “Before … before you had missions, we shared an apartment--a place to eat a good meal and sleep in a warm bed.  I have a safe place for you to stay now, if you want it.”  

A brief nod was his only answer.

They hailed a cab for home. Sam took the front, Steve in back, and Bucky got in last, still holding his backpack. Steve decided his best friend was a mental mess.  Bucky had all the skittishness of a feral cat and twice as many weapons.  The silence was unnerving, for Bucky’s old modus operandus had involved a running commentary of sass.  

Once on their floor, Sam repacked his duffel.  “I’m heading back to DC.  You don’t need anyone else around for this, and Barnes is nervous enough.  I’ll be back this weekend.  Get some decent coffee before then.”

“Done.” Steve nodded. “Sam, thank you. Ask Tony for a lift so you don’t have to sit in traffic.”

“I will. And don’t thank me yet.  I’m gonna do my homework. We have work to do.” Sam jerked a chin toward Bucky and left the apartment.

Knowing Sam was right, Steve tucked his fingers in his pockets and slowly approached his old friend. Bucky still hadn’t moved from his place in the middle of the living room.

“Take a look around,” Steve suggested.  “Feel free to check for bugs, weapons, cameras, anything you don’t want in here.”  He sat down in the middle of the living room floor so that Bucky could keep him in sight.

When Bucky returned, carrying the shield Steve had left beside his bed, he seemed angry.  “This is yours?”

“Yes.”

“I remember.” He grimaced.  

Steve asked, “Do you trust me?”

A slow nod.  

“Good.  Do you want to sleep or get a shower?”

 

 

 

After the first week, Bucky might have been a ghost given the way he tracked after Steve. He drifted along in Steve’s wake, watching and copying what he did. Studying him.  It was unnerving at best.  Heartbreaking at times. He spoke rarely or not at all.

Bucky had read through his file, turning the pages in silence.  Sam tried to talk to him about it, but the soldier stayed quiet.  He seemed to comprehend the information, but gave no reaction, nor did he change his behavior.  

Though his friends worried that taking care of Bucky might be too much for him to take on, Steve woke up every morning thankful he had just one more day with his friend. He coaxed Bucky into a semblance of a normal life.  Food, sleep, clothing, shelter. Bucky took what was offered, though only from Steve’s hands.  

They trekked to an old bookstore where Steve dug up a couple of Bucky's old favorite sci-fi adventures. When the books were finished and set neatly on the bookshelf, Steve had JARVIS queue up the movie versions of both. Bucky didn't comment, but the screen held his attention.

When Natasha and Clint returned from wherever they had been hiding out, they took over one of the floors Stark had set aside for them. When Natasha spoke to Bucky in Russian, he retreated, hiding in the room he’d claimed for himself in Steve’s apartment for the better part of two days.  Steve coaxed him out with another trip to the bookstore.

When Sam gently reminded Steve that Bucky needed to exercise his body to support the prosthetic limb, they went to the gym Stark had created for the Avengers to use.  Natasha and Clint climbed into Hawkeye's nest to watch. Bucky automatically worked through a viciously difficult routine that included both weights and gymnastics.  Steve copied him, partially for the challenge, partially to stay close.

At the end of the work out, Bucky headed for the mats and waited. Steve took the hint and faced off with him. “The rules are different here, Buck. Ten-second hold on the ground, blood drawn, or something breaks automatically ends the session. Either of us can call a halt at any time.”

The fight was half-hearted on Bucky's part, as if he were only fighting with the skill he had during the war. Steve countered him easily. "Come on, Bucky, I know you can do better than that.  We fought before, remember? The Commandos would be ashamed of that lousy punch."   

Silver eyes went flat, and in that moment, Bucky was subsumed by the Winter Soldier.  The match turned deadly between one movement and the next, and Steve had only enough time to be grateful that Bucky wasn't carrying any weapon beyond his arm.

Steve ducked a vicious strike and forced a grin. “There you are, Bucky."

"Who is Bucky?" growled the soldier.  He stalked Steve, attacking with a whirling kick that Steve dodged with only an inch to spare.

"You are.  Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. You're my friend.  I'm your best friend. I always will be."

"Stop talking." Bucky grappled with Steve, using his metal arm to fling Steve across the mats and hard into a wall.  

Steve shook off the impact, though he knew his head would hurt later from the concussion.  "Why?  Are you afraid to know who you are?" he asked, in spite of the ringing in his ears.

Bucky rushed him, yanked him down, and--with a carefully timed blow--caught Steve's larynx hard with the side of his hand.  "No more talking."  

The sudden pain in his throat, the blooming headache, and the loss of breath did something to Steve, forcing him back to a time when he was young, when his body hurt as a course of living, when asthma stole his words, and he couldn't hear much.

So when he opened his eyes--gasping hard--and saw Bucky's face, he acted on old instinct, signing, //I can’t breathe, Bucky.// He made the unique movement he'd assigned to Bucky when he was twelve, while the soldier's eyes widened.  

With fingers that seemed to be stiff with age, Bucky countered, //Who are you?//

//I’m yours. I love you. I always have.  I will, ‘til the end of the line.//

With a rattling wheeze and too little oxygen, Steve blacked out.  

 

*****

 

Bucky stared in horror at Steve's body slumped against the wall.  In the nest, Clint's jaw dropped, and Nat gave him a sharp look.  "My ASL is only what I've picked up from you," she said.  "Did I catch all that?"

"Didn't know ASL came with a Brooklyn accent, but if it does, that was it," Clint retorted.  "Steve's file never mentioned any of … this."  He flapped his hand at the scene down below.  

What made even less sense was Bucky’s reaction.  He tugged off his t-shirt and threw it to the side.  Carefully, he slid down between the wall and Steve so that he could press the blond head to his bare chest.  He rocked, holding on to the other man with both arms.  "Breathe, punk,” he murmured.  He sucked in deep breaths of his own, as if he could help Steve keep rhythm.

Taking a chance, Clint dropped from his nest to the floor anyway, stopping a good twenty feet away from the two men.  That's what Avengers did, he thought.  Stupid stuff that would kill the better-than-average fighter.  Bucky's head snapped up at the soft _thud_.

Clint held his ground with his hands up.  //I'm Steve's friend. My name is Clint Barton. Is he okay?// he signed.  

Reluctantly, Bucky raised his own hands to sign back, keeping Steve cradled in his forearms. //He makes the memories come back.  Too many.  I hurt him. // His face crumpled in anguish. //I didn’t mean to hurt Steve again.//

It took Clint a minute to decipher the name Bucky used for Steve (punk, hah!), but when he did, he signed back, //Steve will heal.  Always does now.//

//I remember.// Bucky rubbed a cheek against Steve’s head.  //Is he right? About me? About us?//

//About who you are? Yes. As for the two of you, you’ll have to ask him.//

Twice, Bucky lifted his hands, only to put them back down. Finally, he signed, //What,// he paused. //What now? Don’t want him in trouble because of me.//

Clint liked to think he was a tough agent with a steel heart. Yeah, no. That was Nat.  Clint despised assholes and had a gooey middle for people needing help.  //Your call. But if it were me, I'd want to get a real life and spend it with the people I love.//

Ice blue eyes pinned Clint in place.  //Is he worth it?//

Was Steve Rogers worth all the pain Bucky was going to have to go through to have a real life? Clint snorted and signed, //Yeah, he's worth it. I know he thinks you’re worth it.//

Bucky leaned down and held Steve a little tighter, pressing a kiss into that golden hair.  //Tell me where to start. //

 

*****

 

Sighing in contentment, Steve nestled his face into a warm shoulder, breathing in all things Bucky.  He really wanted to stay here.  His dreams usually weren’t this nice.  

But the arm shifted, and he came fully awake.  He cleared his throat, humming a little to make sure he had a voice as he stared up at Bucky.  Not the Bucky of his dreams, but the one who was real, of solid flesh, and warm to touch.

His friend’s face fell in apology.   He looked exhausted, not that he hadn’t before, but whatever bits of himself he’d recovered seemed to have drained away. He caught Steve’s outstretched wrist and pulled him up to sit.  

//I’m sorry,// Bucky signed.  //I’ll go, if you want.//

When Steve realized Bucky remembered their private language, joy ran through him like a warm summer sun.  He grinned. //You used to kiss me to shut me up. Can we do that instead?//

Bucky’s lips twitched, then widened into a familiar smirk. //Not sure I remember how.//

When he heard the laughter coming from the edge of the gym, Steve glanced over his shoulder to find Nat and Clint there.  Clint shook his hands to laugh at him in ASL, too.

He ignored them, turning back to Bucky.  //I do,// he signed. //But I can wait. When you’re ready. If you’re ready.  If you still want me. It’s been a while.// He dragged his fingers through his hair.  //You’re here.  That’s enough.// He made his movements sharp for emphasis.

//You been pining for me?// Bucky signed with a flick of sarcasm.

Steve huffed a little, annoyed. //Hard to find someone with shared life experiences.//

That prompted a genuine, if stilted, laugh from Bucky, and more from the peanut gallery behind him.  

Another glance over his shoulder, and this time, Natasha signed, //You could have told me you already had a boyfriend. No wonder you wouldn’t go out on any dates.//

Steve shook his head, turning back to Bucky.  //Do I still have a boyfriend?//

Bucky ran his fingers along Steve’s jaw.  //I don’t remember much.  Just you.// He licked his lips.  //If I kiss you, are you going to slug me?//

//Not if you do it right.// Steve shivered with the memory.  //I’ve said that before.  To you. A long time ago.//

Bucky leaned in.  //Then I must have done it right the first time.//

//Yes, you did.//

 

 


End file.
